


The Winter King

by Yuriy



Series: from the ashes of our bones [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Merlin needs to work in communication, Prophecies are serious business, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Redeemed Morgana (Merlin), The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27487456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuriy/pseuds/Yuriy
Summary: Morgana was dreaming again. Merlin had embraced hope and the will to live on in a fastmoving world. Arthur was coming back and it was time for Merlin to take a stand. The world changed for him and the wheel of destiny started burning.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Morgana (Merlin)
Series: from the ashes of our bones [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008696
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	The Winter King

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a series. There’ll be a bit of world-building to mash together both universes. Please consider that this is a work in progress, so please be patient with updates.

_In the heart of Dumnonia_ _, stands a tower,_  
_An Isle on a sea of glass, where Merlin planned,  
_ _The Old Gods of the Land would return to Britain at last._

Merlin wore a young face, but he was old. Ancient. He had been young once. Arthur had told him about Rome, about the kingdoms beyond their shore, and when he accepted that his magic wasn’t enough to roll Arthur’s prophecy into motion, he travelled. Merlin had seen the world. He witnessed the rising and falling of empires. He witnessed how Britain grew in power and might, how it expanded its dominion beyond its shores and across continents, and he waited for Arthur be reborn through the British royal line again.

The line of kings Arthur had belonged to was non-existent, erased so long ago that no present king could claim kinship. It would have broken Merlin’s heart, and it did some days, if he weren’t aware that Arthur was bond to the island of his birth and not the monarchs on the throne. Arthur would return to Britain one day regardless of who sat on its throne, or if there was a throne at all. A united Albion was Arthur’s promised birth right and prophecies, Merlin had also learned, were self-fulfilling. Arthur’s destiny was delayed, not trumped, and he would return.

It gave him hope, knowing Arthur was tied to Albion just as Merlin, loyal and kingless Merlin, was tied to Arthur. It was solid ground, an unshakable truth, and Merlin was bound to return to the land of his king, of his ancestors, and watch over Arthur’s ever-growing kingdom.

That didn’t mean he mingled much with the normal population. Mingling with muggles—and what a dreadful word!—was tricky. Their slang changed too fast and their technology made tracking easier, which spelled trouble for a man like Merlin.

Merlin had alias everywhere, a foot in the two sides of Britain—still divided, still waiting for Arthur’s coming day—and he sometimes felt like performing, when he was particularly in need of company and magic creatures could not provide for his needs.

And as frustrating as policing borders was, Merlin still considered himself human. He still had morals and saw the world through them, unlike the children and the people of the Sidhe themselves. He had his kin, although they were voiceless and treated as mindless beasts. They, Merlin had failed while focusing on Arthur and his destiny. He failed them still.

But prophecies could not be outweighed. Even Merlin with all his magic was bound to them and, as such, he returned to Britain when he felt the pull on his magic. The call wasn’t urgent, only persistent, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Across the world, raising from an unsteady sleep, Merlin answer its call. He slipped out of the hostel he was staying in Minsk in the middle of the night. He marched to the West through the entrenched paths of the Otherworld.

The time passed different in the Sidhe. It stood still, frozen in eternal spring and a never-ending banquet and party. Its allure was strong, like salve for aching and wandering souls, for those who love beauty and the pleasures of life. The Otherworld held no such promise for Merlin. It would not give him what he sought and would not fill the hollowness in his chest, warm the chill that had taken hold of his body.

He didn’t see the beauty of those who lived there, but their hunger and need for adoration, their pettiness and callowness. They regarded Merlin with hungry eyes, bright as burning coals, and shied away from his path when they saw the urgency in his eyes, or the brewing rage of a stormy sea in his blue eyes. The Good People was not to be messed with and neither was Merlin. Face to face, they stood in equal footing.

Merlin didn’t stop, nor was he stopped, until he was at the edge of the blessed and damned lake.

Morgana waited for him there. Standing with her spine straight, she regarded him anxiously. The hate that had poisoned her heart and soul had died long ago, as she remained bound to that lake until Arthur’s second coming—Arthur’s judgment—and her former beauty had been slowly restored to her. She had been a royal ward, a daughter to the crown, a powerful sorceress and a High Priestess, even dressed plainly her upbringing kept true.

“Morgana,” Merlin nodded in acknowledge. He had attested her change but the warm between them had never returned fully to either of them. He had forgiven what he could, accepted her repentance and remorse, but had not moved on. Neither had she. “Has there been a change in Arthur’s sleep?” he asked dutifully, not really hopeful.

She had never called him before. Britain did, even before Morgana was willing to speak to him, or stop raging for the freedom she was yet again denied. In the same way Merlin waited for his king, Morgana waited for his brother. The last two pillars of what was Camelot, Arthur’s last link to his court and his people, waiting on opposite sides of the lake. Merlin had stayed at Arthur’s side to the end, and he could not cross the lake and see him. Morgana had betrayed and abandoned Arthur, and she was bound to his healing chambers, to oversee his safe return to the world when time came. The irony had not been lost to Merlin.

“No.” Morgana said evenly, but her eyes turned to the lake. The water was still and shiny, like liquid silver, reflecting the sun of the eternal summer that was the Otherworld. Beyond the lake Arthur was sleeping, still healing from his battle wounds. “I had a vision.”

Merlin nodded again, hiding the bitterness in his heart.

“A vision? I thought you said they had stopped when you came here.”

“I thought they had.” Morgana confirmed. “It occurs to me they may not have been important enough. This one is. It involves you…and him.”

_Him_.

How long had he waited for a hint of _him_? How long had Merlin raged and wept? How long had he screamed and despaired, hoped and craved? It was far too long since he felt real hope blooming in his chest, filling every corner of his mind, and making his heartbeat like a madman. Merlin had been too afraid of hoping.

“What did you see?” He crossed the distance between them, his feet stomping over the green grass and leaving footprints behind. “Morgana, _please_ , what did you see?” he begged her without an ounce of shame, letting hope grip his heart fast. His eyes shone bright for the first time in almost a millennium. “I must know.”

Morgana wetted her lips and finally dragged her eyes from the shore, setting them over Merlin’s scrawny body. He had had longer hair in her vision, and eyes as silver as the lake. The youth in her dream had looked nothing like Merlin, any version of him, and somehow, she had known it was him. She hadn’t recognised the man beside Merlin or identified why he looked at him with mistrust and regret. She had identified Arthur standing in front of him, a stick in his hand, and being his protective and chivalrous self.

Words in dreams faded quickly, unless the emotion behind them was strong enough to shake the seer. Morgana remembered not the words, but the fierce protectiveness and range swelling in Arthur’s chest, the regret rolling in waves from the battered man who had looked at Merlin as if he was the physical manifest of his mistakes. She had woken up gasping for air and shivering.

“You were young once more. Younger than you have ever been, and your eyes were not your own. A man stood with you and was suspicious, although his motivations are unknown to me. I know him not.” She saw Merlin expectantly, as if he could tell her more of her dream than she knew. He stared blankly at her, just as ignorant. “Arthur was holding a tiny stick in his hand, and he seemed to be protecting you of this man. He wielded the stick as he did his sword, and he was just as fierce.”

“A stick?”

“Yes.” Morgana frowned. “I can’t see past the mist, nor stay here for long. I know not which shape the world has now. All I know is my brother will stand at your side, yet you will not be as you are now. I’m sorry.”

Morgana sounded apologetic enough, but he refused to acknowledge the sympathy. If she had listened— _if he had listened_ —Arthur would not have died that day. Merlin had prepared to lose Arthur to old age, not to magic. Morgana’s hatred— _and Merlin’s mistakes_ —had stolen Camelot of its king, Gwen of her husband and Arthur of his youth.

“Sorcerers use sticks now to channel their magic instead of words and intent. They call them wands.” A soft smiled spread through his lips without his permission. It had been too long since he smiled genuinely. Much longer since he smiled in her direction at all. “Arthur will return as a _wizard_.”

Uther would revolt in his grave if he knew his two children would wield magic. It would serve him right.

“When, Morgana? When?” He put his hands on her shoulders and she winced under his touch. He only seemed to realise his mistake when her eyes widened in surprise and something else Merlin was too ashamed to name. “I’m sorry.”

The tautness in her body told him it had been centuries since the last time someone had touched her. He spent little time there, since avoiding her made things easier despite how wrong it was. He was done doing the ‘right’ thing, whatever it meant. It never occurred to him that the Good People kept their distance from her as they did with him. They gave her clothes and jewels, but their hearts were caught in her beauty and not her humanity. For the first time, Merlin pitied her.

“I don’t know.” Morgana said far softer this time, unsure, and she sounded like the scared woman who had begged Merlin for help. The friend who had trusted Merlin. “Visions are not prophecies. I see a glimpse into the future, but my dreams, although vivid, were never specific. I don’t know what they mean, nor when they will happen, or how to trigger them into motion. I never learnt to control them, and they had all but disappeared until today. I didn’t think I would ever have them again, Merlin.”

“It’s…” he hesitated, unsure of what to say to comfort her.

They stood at a standstill. They had been enemies for longer than they had been friends. Arthur had set them apart and Arthur had brought them together, kept them tied to their duties as subjects, as kin and friend. Merlin loved Arthur deeper than he loved anyone. It couldn’t be helped. His entire existence had been shaped by Arthur’s birth, life, and death, but he still remembered when he loved Morgana.

“I must leave.” Morgana made the decision for both of them. She took his hands off her with rigid movements and the same care one had when holding a poisonous snake. This time, Merlin winced. “Your duty is to his kingdom and mine is to his healing. If I dream anything else, I will call you.”

_Duty_. Merlin swallowed hard and gave her a shaky nod, wishing he had more words for her. Wishing to forgive all her sins. All his sins. But she asked not for his forgiveness, nor she offered her own, and Merlin saw her retreat back to the lake, crossing Avalon’s gates with the same regal air she had had before her falling.

“Arthur would be so disappointed.” He muttered to himself.

Despite his flaws, Arthur had been a fair king and now that Merlin had proof that Arthur was coming, he felt a sharp pang of unease. Morgana wouldn’t be the only one who would be judged by their king. She had betrayed her brother and Merlin had betrayed himself. He had grown old, and tired of the world. He barely remembered when he became so cynical and disillusioned with life.

He had lived a semi-purposeless life. Clinging to a prophecy with no set date had consumed his spirit. But now something had changed, shifted, and magic bubbled under his skin in anticipation. He felt it in his bones. Albion was calling to him, as did Cymru, and Alba and Éire. If he closed his eyes, he could see the vastness of Arthur’s kingdom.

Merlin twirled around, leaving the lake behind as the forest grew into a busy street. Crossing the veil between worlds was no easy feat, but being made of magic, Merlin crossed the borders without feeling the strain of the years trying to reshape his body, to display in the flesh the truth of his centuries. The spell broke quickly, repelled by the oddity that Merlin was, and he made his way to the Leaky Cauldron dressed in muggle clothes and wearing a face he had not used since Arthur’s days.

Using his own face, Merlin discovered, felt reinvigorating.

-.-.-.-.-

The downside of stepping foot in the magical communities in the British Isles was wizard’s lifespan. They lived far too long compared to muggles, and most kept their minds sharp, which made it harder for Merlin to come up with safe alias.

“Greetings,” Merlin tipped his head in front of the bald man at the front of the bar. Last time Merlin had been there, in the mid-twenties, a much older and bearded man had kicked him out after an argument got out of hand.

The man watched him with a pinched expression, debating between suspicion and politeness. In the end, he returned to his job, drying a glass with a piece of cloth, and mumbled a parse greeting.

“Any specialties?” Merlin continued. He was in high spirits. “I’m starving. I think I haven’t eaten in a few days. Too out of my head, you know? It’s been a while since I was here, too. It’s smells better—cleaner.”

“Chatty, aren’t ya? Better be careful, lad.” The keeper gave him an appraising look. Merlin blinked in confusion. “The clothes give you away, not that I care. People might.”

“Ah.” It was all Merlin muttered, understanding showing in his face. He had been so drunk in the news of Arthur that he forgot to change into proper robes. Honestly, he had stopped paying attention to the wizarding agenda after Grindelwald’s arrest. “I suppose the colours may be too bright.” He said airily with a tense smile. “Don’t worry, I’m just passing by.”

“Customers are customers,” the keeper insister after a moment of hesitation. “We have some excellent pork pie and ale—Iorwerth’s certified too. Seven galleons with a room for the night.”

“Sounds good to me. Just the meal, please. I do have housing. My family is from Wales.”

“Ah. Might explain the accent and clothes.” The keeper nodded to himself. “Four galleons and eight sickles.”

Merlin didn’t have another attempt at conversation. The keeper, whose name he had forgotten to ask, was obviously not interested in pleasantries. He should have changed to blend in, but he could hardly cry over spilled milk.

“Thanks…?” he stared at the man, hoping for name. “It tastes great.” It didn’t, but he couldn’t complain. It wasn’t Britain’s fault Merlin had travelled around Asian and African for the last decade and his palate had become used to spices.

“Tom.”

“Tom.” Merlin nodded. “Martin.”

The keeper—Tom—nodded and placed a butterbeer in front of him before moving further down the bar to serve a couple who seemed very annoyed at the waiting. Merlin dug in and opened his ears. Pubs and taverns still were the best places for gossip and gathering information. Soon, as if proving him right, the couple who had been arguing with Tom took seat a few stools away.

“She has to be hiding something, Marly.” The woman, dressed in bright emerald green robes, huffed with great offense at her companion. “Twelve hours I hounded Saint Mungo to get the exclusive of the Black’s new baby, and that slimy Skeeter published it within hours of Walburga Black getting admitted. I was the one calling the big shots to get two minutes and a peak at the certificate and all for naught!” she cried in dismay.

“I wouldn’t cry too much, Tia.”

“And why not?” Tia snapped. “This was the story of a lifetime since Astra Malfoy gave birth! This boy it’s the future Black Heir and my name could have been in bold letters! I have been waiting for a story like this to get my own column, Marly. I’m so done covering the weekly birth announcements and obituaries.”

“I’m sure if the Black wished to announce their heir’s birth, they would hold a ball. A newspaper’s announcement seems tacky,” Marly said pointedly. “Just be glad you’ll be stuck with a career, and not hiding from hungry lawyers.”

“I doubt it very much!”

Merlin finished his meal and couldn’t pretend to be busy anymore while listening to the witches’ heated exchange. Went on the oncoming births wouldn’t hurt too much. Merlin also needed to study the new political climate. The prophecy stated Arthur would return in Albion’s time of need, which meant something terrible would shake the kingdom’s foundation. As if the two previous world wars and the raise of Grindelwald hadn’t thrown the wizarding world into utter chaos.

A pang of fear gripped Merlin as the memories of Camlann returned to him. This time Merlin would be ready for anything coming their way. He was master of his own craft and Morgana would not betray them. Arthur would not be a twice-fallen King.

Arthur Pendragon was his destiny and this time Merlin would greet him with open and waiting arms.

He left the pub after placing the money on the bar. He slinked off to the back of the pub and touched the bricked wall to reveal the entrance to Diagon Alley. The alley was packed with small stores and a funny smell, the mixture of potions and the sweetness of pastries. The cobblestone street was filled with activity despite the chilly breeze. That night was particularly cold.

Merlin made it to Gringotts uninterrupted. People either minded their business, or the environment was still charged after All Hollow’s Eve. It was a mercy and Merlin reminded himself not to be cheeky. Fate had a way to screw him over and he needed all the luck he could have. Gringotts was blissfully empty.

The old building sent a shiver down Merlin’s spine. It looked innocuous enough on the exterior, slightly twisted in shape, and no one could imagine what laid deep beneath its lustrous floors, deeper than its ancient vaults and labyrinthine passages. Merlin didn’t need to imagine it. He could feel it. He could feel the misery, the pain, and the fear.

“The bank is closed.” A rough voice growled from behind a teller. The goblin, small and with eyes as dark as coal, stared at Merlin for an awkward moment. He realised his mistake, for he suddenly coughed. “My apologies, Emrys. It’s been some…centuries since you visit.”

“Indeed. I wish to visit My and Arthur’s vault. I will make a withdrawal.”

“Of course. I will get the manager.”

“That won’t be necessary. It will be a short visit.” Merlin assured him coolly. “Shall we?”

“This way.” The globin squandered his shoulders and steered Merlin toward the carts. They didn’t make conversation, as Merlin never did with goblins, and when they reached to the lowest level of the bank the cart stopped. “Please do not deviate from the path, Emrys.”

Ignoring the order, Merlin wandered off the path, following the throbbing in his chest. The sight broke his heart once again, like every time he came. She was underweighted, nothing but skin and bones, and the chains in her neck had burn through the scales, grazing the softer skin. Placing his hand on her nozzle, Merlin tried to calm her down.

This was on him as well.

“Hush, sweetie, don’t be scare. It’ll be over soon.” He whispered in their tongue. Her eyes were a lost cause. She would never survive on her own, hunting for herself, but Merlin would take care of her after the hundred years were up. “I have a house in Wales that you will enjoy. You will be okay.”

Merlin healed what he could. There was damage that couldn’t be undone, betrayals he couldn’t take back.

“Be strong. I will come for you.” He promised and meant it, kissing the distressed dragon on the nuzzle. The dragon let out a sharp, acute, growl, a mourning sound as Merlin left it behind. “You will feed her.” Merlin glared at the goblin, who had stayed at the cart. “Our deal never included torture and starvation.”

“Not torture, Emrys. Training. I assure you, we have never…”

“She is my kin.” Merlin reminded him softly. “Feed her.”

“I will see to it.” The goblin was quick to agree. A warrior race never bent their knee without bleeding out first. Going to war with Emrys, however, would be foolish. Magi couldn’t be destroyed and Emrys was the reason magic had survived, living on strong.

Abusing Emrys’ kindness had already proved being a bitter path. No gobbling was naïve enough to believe Emrys would forget or forgive, but what was done was done. The dragons would be released and the goblins had started preparations for the fallout.

Luckily for the two of them, Merlin was civil for the remaining of time and the conversation fell back to business. Money was a safe topic.

“I will need a money bag keyed to Arthur’s vault.” Merlin determined, satisfied after seeing the growing status of the vault. There were few items he had secured from Camelot before it fell, and hopefully Arthur would find the useful. Nostalgic to the very least.

After some hesitation, he grabbed the Crystal of Neahtid and hid it in his pocket. If Morgana was having visions again, he might as well try the crystal. He would need all the help he could get.

“Will it be keyed to you as well, Emrys?”

“No. Keep the paperwork ready, I will come in when I need it.” He still needed to find Arthur first. “We may go back.” He finished.

The trip back to the surface was blessedly silent. Merlin was itching to bolt away from the bank or go back to the bowels and snatch the dragon. He forced himself to keep on a straight face and remind the goblin of his promise.

“What is your name?” he asked last, casually, and the goblin hesitated. “I think it’s polite to ask rather than just…pull it off, right?”

“Bragurd.” The gobblin said stiffly. “Bragurd of the Crimson City.”

“Bragurd,” Merlin muttered to himself and nodded. His eyes shone in a golden light, the naming rolling off his tongue with an off sound. “I will hold you to your promise.”

Bragurd, the goblin, gave a jerky nod. The prodding magic had wheezed past his ribcage, carving the promise on his bone. It was more a sentence, a warning, than a promise. It was a reminder too, of Emrys’ displeasure.

After leaving the bank, Merlin went shopping. He needed to blend and would need the robes for it. Madam Malkin’s was the next step, which also provided a wondrous spot for gossip and information. Merlin offered the woman a charming smile, playing the expat who had just returned home from the continent.

“You didn’t miss much unless you’ve been abroad half your life.” Madam clicked her tongue sharply. The tape measure immediately stilled along Merlin’s elbow. “A few new laws have been passed concerning the Irish, mainly.”

“Nothing interesting for Wales?” He half-joked.

“Dear child, the last time the Welsh had anything to say was when the Ministry forbade them using real dragons for Dinas Emrys, whatever they needed them for!” Shaking her head, Madam Malkin pointed with her wand at a parchment, writing the measures. “All done, dear. Do you wish to have your robes delivered or come and get them?”

“Delivered.” Merlin scribbled down the address and placed the money on the counter. “Thank you very much. It’s been most enlightening.”

It had, for day. The last place Merlin went to was Flourish and Blotts. He picked several books that could cover the gaps between Grindelwald and present times, mainly about the last passing laws and some on new spells, which were always fun, before grabbing a copy of the Daily Prophet.

“That’s sixty-three galleons.” The witch behind the desk droned out. She didn’t look surprised or curious about his clothes or the massive number of books he had levitated for her to ring them up.

“There, thanks—lovely hair, by the way.” He pointed at the blue flames dancing on the witch’s dark hair. They covered part of her shoulders as well, licking the tip of hair. “How do they even do that?”

The witch blinked. “Huh. My sister did them for me—she works at Callista’s, across the post office?—and they can do all sort of hair dye and styles. This one is pretty tamed.”

“Looks wicked.” Merlin insisted. He casted a weightless charm on his books as well as a sizing spell. “Well, thanks again.”

Everything done for the day, Merlin walked outside the alley to aparate home. He had cleaning to do, laws to study, a King to track, and some grocery shopping to do. Plus, he might as well lend his books to Morgana. She would be the first one to know when Arthur was coming back and she was the best shot Merlin had for Arthur to get a glimpse of the world he would walk back to before hell broke loose on them.

Hope, Merlin found, was a powerful drug. He could not stop moving, working, _living_. It was the best he had felt in years, whenever he wasn’t beating himself for his lack of commitment with the dragons.

No. He couldn’t thin like that. He would fix it. He would fix everything—the dragons, the lies. Morgana. He would make things work this time. He couldn’t think what he would do if they didn’t. He would fade out. Die. Hopelessness wasn’t so different from being dead, after all.

_Think of Arthur_ , Merlin told himself. He allowed himself to think of his king. He allowed himself to feel giddy, and nervous, and joyful. There weren’t more tears to cry, his eyes had dried, in either happiness or sorrow, but Merlin closed his eyes and let his magic reach out in every corner of the house.

Arthur was coming and Merlin took a step forward purposefully, full of intent and with clarity in his eyes. He was ready to exist once again. For country, and King, and his dearest friend, Merlin reached out and something and the magic answered its call.

Outside the house, a flowerbed of snow drops and anemones bloomed in early November. They covered the entrance of the house, growing along the path to the main door. Under the protection of the dark cloak of the night above them, the flowerbeds glowed unnaturally in a golden light. Golden, like Merlin’s eyes when he did magic. Golden, like the dragon in Arthur’s family crest.

Gold and Scarlet, magic and blood. Unity. Uther had been foolish to divide them, Morgana a foolish for drive the wedge further, and Merlin more so for given up. But it would come back. The golden prince and the dragon lord united.

Something shifted, changed, and Merlin was blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the horizon. Ignorant of the wheel turning, waving the threads of fate in directions he never imagined before.

-.-.-.-.-

Morgana paced through the castle, leaving the healing chambers behind. She had retired for the night, secluding herself in chambers richly decorated with sheets made of silk and pillows filled with soft feathers. She could hear the music playing in the distance, a faint sound that would grow louder as the night bleed into day, disappearing with the first ray of sun.

She was sure she would dream that night. It scared her. Visions were tricky, haunting, and the emotions clung to her skin for days. She still felt rattled when dark, obsidian, eyes fixed on her own filled with regret. The battered man, with sunken cheeks and a face that had been handsome once, looked at Merlin like Merlin looked at her—disappointed, sad, angry, regretfully.

She knew not what role Merlin would play. She knew not who the man was. She could only hope whatever Merlin did, he had Arthur at his side. The centuries had quelled her wrath, her hate, but the pain remained. She missed him, although not nearly as much as she missed Gwen. She mourned what could have had been.

Morgana didn’t fool herself into believing Merlin would forgive her. She wouldn’t in his place. She didn’t fool herself about Arthur either—foolish, loyal, stupid Arthur—and that was another regret. She didn’t hate him anymore.

“This time you will need to protect him, Arthur.” She looked through the window, down at the still waters of the lake. He was not there, nor was his sword. She would take him across the lake when time came. She had dreamed of that too. “He doesn’t believe he needs it, but he is the better of the two of us. He will need your acceptance and forgiveness. He may not survive your disdain.”

Merlin wouldn’t. Morgana would. She had made peace with her destiny. She was too tired to fight against it. Whenever she did, it pulled her harder towards the Pendragon. Towards Uther. Towards Arthur. She would not ask Arthur mercy. Mercy, too, was earned.

She turned from the window and changed into sleeping attire. Morgana laid on her bed and dreamed.

**Author's Note:**

> Astra Malfoy – This is Lucius Malfoy’s mother. I couldn’t find any information on his mother, but a bunch of information on plenty of male relatives. She won’t be too relevant on this particular story.
> 
> Iris Skeeter – Rita Skeeter’s mother. The story takes place in 1959 and according to wiki, Rita was born in 1951. Rita learning to use shady means to deliver news from her mother is a HC of mine.  
> Iris was also, along with Hermes, the messenger of the Gods in the Greek Mythology.
> 
> Lastly, the relationship between Merlin and the goblins is… frosty at best. I mean, he is supposed to be the Last Dragon Lord and kin to dragons. I can’t see him being peachy with a dragon being tortured. 
> 
> Merlin and Morgana’s relationship is also a work in progress.


End file.
